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Monday, January 09, 2006 THE BIRTH OF LOVE - William Wordsworth, 1795 Translated from some French stanzas by Francis Wrangham, and printed in "Poems by Francis Wrangham, M.A." WHEN Love was born of heavenly line, What dire intrigues disturbed Cythera's joy! Till Venus cried, "A mother's heart is mine; None but myself shall nurse my boy," But, infant as he was, the child In that divine embrace enchanted lay; And, by the beauty of the vase beguiled, Forgot the beverage--and pined away. "And must my offspring languish in my sight?" (Alive to all a mother's pain, The Queen of Beauty thus her court addressed) "No: Let the most discreet of all my train Receive him to her breast: Think all, he is the God of young delight." Then TENDERNESS with CANDOUR joined, And GAIETY the charming office sought; Nor even DELICACY stayed behind: But none of those fair Graces brought Wherewith to nurse the child--and still he pined. Some fond hearts to COMPLIANCE seemed inclined; But she had surely spoiled the boy: And sad experience forbade a thought On the wild Goddess of VOLUPTUOUS JOY. Long undecided lay th' important choice, Till of the beauteous court, at length, a voice Pronounced the name of HOPE:--The conscious child Stretched forth his little arms, and smiled. 'Tis said ENJOYMENT (who averred The charge belonged to her alone) Jealous that HOPE had been preferred Laid snares to make the babe her own. Of INNOCENCE the garb she took, The blushing mien and downcast look; And came her services to proffer: And HOPE (what has not Hope believed!) By that seducing air deceived, Accepted of the offer. It happened that, to sleep inclined, Deluded HOPE: for one short hour To that false INNOCENCE'S power Her little charge consigned. The Goddess then her lap with sweetmeats filled And gave, in handfuls gave, the treacherous store: A wild delirium first the infant thrilled; But soon upon her breast he sunk--to wake no more. It's like sliding across ice, towards the end of a cliff, where you want to stop but can't. It's like riding the crest of a tsunami, knowing that, at the end, you'll be tossed unceremoniously onto the shore. It's like watching a horror film, telling the movie star not to open the door but he does so anyway. It's like piloting a doomed ship, watching the enemy flagship loom larger and larger as the klaxons blare and the warnings flash. It's like me, now, careeming towards disaster in slow-motion, onto the altar to be offered up to an evil deity. It's time to look for a way out, maybe?
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